


1968

by babe_without_the_arms



Category: Twin Peaks
Genre: Academy Era, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-22
Updated: 2018-12-22
Packaged: 2019-09-24 15:17:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17103026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/babe_without_the_arms/pseuds/babe_without_the_arms
Summary: This is the first couple pieces of what will be a multi-chapter, pre & post-series fic exploring the 25 year vacuum left behind by Jeffries and Cooper's disappearance from Gordon and Albert's lives. I just needed to get something posted (it's been too long!) and waiting until it was all done in one piece will just take too much time. Hope you enjoy!





	1. Chapter 1

**1968**

**I.**

“Hello there. My name’s Gordon Cole.”

Jeffries turned around in his chair. A shiny, babyfaced cadet was standing over him with an obnoxious grin on his face.

“Well, I’m Phillip Jeffries." He put his hand out for Gordon to shake.

Gordon stared at him.

"Holy smokes..."

Jeffries waited for Gordon to shake his hand, but he seemed stunned into frozen silence. Judging from his expression he looked like he had either just seen a ghost, or been offered a swimming pool full of his favorite flavor of ice cream. 

"Are you..." Gordon finally breathed, trailing off.

"Am I what?" Jeffries raised an eyebrow. 

Gordon blinked at him. He opened his mouth once, closed it, and then opened it again, only to be interrupted by the sound of the academy instructor brusquely calling the class to attention.

"Saved by the bell, I guess," Jeffries said skeptically, and then turned around.

The instructor started in with the usual intimidation tactics: "This will be the hardest six months of your life," "Only 30% of you will graduate the program, and only half of the graduates will receive marks high enough receive field placement," etc etc, blah blah blah. Jeffries supremely doubted any of that would be true. He was already checking out, his attention floating over to the window where the breeze was gently pushing the tree branches and the grass on the lawn. Damn, he wanted a cigarette, and maybe some iced tea, an hour or two on the shooting range by himself after dinner...

Suddenly he felt a small poke in his side calling him back down to earth. He looked down--Gordon Cole was handing him a small scrap of paper. He ignored it, only to receive another sharp poke to his ribs. He grimaced and glanced up to the front of the room to make sure the instructor was occupied with his speech, and then quickly snatched the paper and looked at it as discreetly as he could. There was a note written in small capital letters in a strange, too-straight script.

ARE YOU AN ALIEN?

There was an arrow drawn at the bottom to indicate he should turn the paper over.

IT'S O.K. IF YOU ARE. I WON'T TELL ANYONE

Jeffries choked on a laugh and then quickly shoved it into his pocket. The instructor had finished his introductory speech and had begun rattling off roommate assignments, with the instruction that beds should be made before reporting on time to dinner, with a punishment of ten demerits and pushups for both infractions if either task was not completed.

"Room 206: Jeffries, Phillip and Cole, Gordon--"

"Holy SMOKES!" Gordon's squeaky voice blurted out behind him.

* * *

 

**II.**

Jeffries looked up from his duffel bag. "So which bunk do you--"

Gordon was already unfolding the sheets on the bottom bunk.

"... I was thinkin' we'd flip a coin or somethin'?"

Gordon shook his head, stretching his sheets out over the mattress with precision. "Oh, that's real nice of you Jeffries, but I'll be just fine with the bottom bunk."

"I certainly can see that." Jeffries drawled.

"So what do you want to do in the FBI?"

"Dunno.” Jeffries pushed himself up on to the top of the bed and began to unfold his bedding. “Maybe intel. Haven't really thought about it much."

"Do you want to be in the field or at headquarters?"

"Definitely in the field."

"Huh. That's real neat."

"Mhm." Jeffries said, noncommittally. "So... You got a plan or somethin'?"

Gordon suddenly reappeared from below, having finished making his bed in what seemed like a humanly impossible amount of time. He hopped up onto the frame of his bunk, stacking his hands on top of Phillip's mattress and propping up his chin on it, watching Phillip shove his pillow into his pillowcase.

"I'm going to be director."

"That so?" Jeffries clicked.

"Yep."

"Mmm. Might want to try for top of the class first or somethin'."

"Oh, I'm going to be that too," Gordon said, watching Jeffries intently.

"Well." Jeffries looked at him in a sideways glance, deciding that he would refrain from bursting Gordon's bubble for now. He had no real ambition like Gordon apparently did, but it still would be satisfying to see the look on Gordon's face after he beat him on the marksmanship exam. "Shoot for the moon, I guess."

Gordon's eyes widened. "What does that mean?"

"What? 'Shoot for the moon'?"

Gordon nodded.

"You know, 'Shoot for the moon, even if you miss, you'll...'" Jeffries rolled his eyes at how stupid the whole phrase was. "' _You'll land among the stars._ '"

"Wow." Gordon breathed. "That's so beautiful."

“... You really never heard that?"

"No. It's so beautiful."

"It's--Wow, it’s just somethin' really stupid that people say." Jeffries shook his head. " _Really_ I was tryin' to make fun of y--"

"Is that something people say on the planet you're from?"

"What?"

"Is it like a greeting?"

Jeffries stared at him. Gordon smiled as if suddenly understanding something.

"Oh, I see. Golly, you sure must have a real hard time understanding all the weird things we humans do!" He spoke slowly as if he were speaking to a small child. "A 'greeting' is a way of saying hello. Back home where I'm from, we say something like, 'Beautiful day! God bless you.' And then we shake hands." He stuck out a hand for Phillip to shake. "Try it."

Jeffries shook his head, looking at Gordon suspiciously. "I honest to God can't tell if you're pullin' my leg, or if you really believe I'm an--"

Gordon broke into a mischievous grin and shrugged his shoulders, as if to say he wasn't sure himself either. He hopped down from the bed before Phillip could shove him off, and sat down on the bottom bunk and put on his shoes, giggling.

"Jeffries, I would like to share with you an anecdote of what I hope will be no small amusement."

Jeffries rolled his eyes, but found he couldn’t help smiling privately to himself.

"Why are there only eighteen letters in the English alphabet?"

"I _really_ can’t say, Cole."

"Because the E.T. flew off in a UFO, and the FBI chased after it." Gordon popped up again. "Pretty funny, huh?"

"Mhm. You think you're real cute, don't you."

Gordon beamed at him, and then checked his watch. He jumped a little in surprise. "Golly! Dinner's in ten minutes. I sure hope you get your bed made on time. That would be a real shame if you started your first day with ten demerits already. Well, I'll see you in the mess hall."

He strolled out the door, whistling with his hands in his pockets.

* * *

**III.**

Jeffries grabs a food tray from the counter and scans the mess hall.

Gordon Cole is waving at him from a lone table with an enormous smile on his face. Jeffries squints at him for a few seconds-- _The hell? You just got me in trouble and now you want me to sit down with you?_ But there is something irresistible about the grin on Gordon’s face that causes Jeffries to finally stroll over and slide coolly onto the bench across from him. If nothing else, it’s a power move.

“You’re late, Jeffries,” Gordon squeaked.

“So I am.”

“Did you get in trouble?”

“What do you think?”

“I think you did.” Gordon grinned, obviously very pleased with himself.

Jeffries stared at him for a moment--this boy was _unbelievable_ \--and then broke into a laugh.

“You look like someone who’s gonna _keep_ gettin’ me in trouble.”

Gordon’s smile widened even further, fixing his blue eyes on Jeffries as if he were the only thing alive in the entire universe.

“Jeffries, I’m hoping you might ask me what I think _you_ look like.”

Jeffries twisted a little in his seat. Was Gordon… ? As strange and annoying as he was, there was something deeply charming about Gordon Cole, something bright and confident that attracted his attention in a way that was rare for Jeffries. Jeffries crossed his fingers and rested his chin on his hands, fluttering his voice in a drawl.

“Well, what do you think I look like, _Gordon Cole._ ”

He saw Gordon stop for a moment and swallow unconsciously, and with a sense of victory watched Gordon’s eyes flick up and down his face. There was no _way_ this boy was--

“You look like somebody I dreamed about before,” Gordon finally said, with a thrill of intensity.

Jeffries frowned at him, his thoughts screeching to a halt. The ambient noise of the mess hall suddenly seemed to evaporate. Something, perhaps intuition, now told him that being the man of Gordon’s dreams might carry more shadow than romance. He raised an eyebrow.

“... How’s that.”

Gordon stared at him intently. “He and I were in some sort of motel. At night. The man was older than you, but you look just like him. It took my breath away when I first saw you. I mean, you really look just like him. I just couldn’t believe it.”

Jeffries looked at him, trying to meet the uncanny gaze in Gordon’s eyes. “Well.” He finally said, looking away, hoping Gordon would miss or possibly ignore the uncomfortable deflection in his voice. “Maybe you did dream about me, Cole.”

Gordon suddenly leaned forward over the table. His eyes were huge. “Well, that’s the thing, I think I did. I really think I did dream about you, Jeffries. Maybe it was you in the future. And you told me about a girl named Judy.” He lowered his voice to a whisper, and Jeffries felt himself lean in closer too, reeled in by the blue in Gordon's eyes. Until their faces were inches apart. There was no apparent reason for it, but it felt appropriate somehow, like the conversation had taken a sudden turn that belonged behind closed doors. “Do you know who she is? Judy?”

Jeffries slowly shook his head. The name occupied a strangely familiar space in his mind, but as far as he could remember, he didn’t know a Judy.

“No.” He frowned at Gordon. “Not yet, anyway."

* * *

**IV.**

 

Gordon woke up to the sound of Jeffries dressing himself in the dark in the middle of their room.

“Jeffries?”

“Shit.” Jeffries shook his head.

“Are you getting dressed?”

“Go back to sleep.”

Gordon sat up in bed, rubbing at his eyes, already awake and eager.

“You’re going to go break into the student records office, aren’t you?” He asked, intrigued.

“How did you know that?” Jeffries hissed. He stopped, one leg stuck through his pants. “And lower your voice. The walls are damned thin in here.”

"Sorry.” Gordon whispered. “I’ve just seen you looking in the windows of the record office a lot. Like you were scoping it out or something.”

“It’s like you’re in the FBI academy or somethin’,” Jeffries muttered, and went back to pulling on his clothes. Gordon grinned. 

"So how are you going to do it?”

"I don’t wanna talk about it, okay? Just go back to sleep and mind your own business.”

He grabbed a flashlight and slipped out of the room into the hallway, closing the door behind him. He had barely made it five steps away from the door when Gordon’s voice stopped him in the hallway.

“Jeffries!” He whispered loudly.

Jeffries turned around, making a sign for Gordon to be quiet.

“What!" he hissed.

“D'you think I could maybe come with you?”

“Aw, hell.” Jeffries slapped a hand over his face.

“You sure do swear a lot for a guy who wears a cross around his neck,” Gordon whispered.

“What’s that got to do with me swearin’.” Jeffries hissed back. “The answer is no. You seem just as liable to tattle on me as help me out. And I don’t need any help. I know how to pick a lock just fine.”

Gordon shook his head. “I don’t want to do the sneaky part. I’ll let you do that. I could just, um. I don’t know. Make sure the coast is clear. Let you know if somebody is coming so you don’t get in trouble.” Jeffries stared at him. Gosh, Jeffries eyes were just so pretty, even in the dim light of the hallway. Gordon blushed a little under the eye contact and wondered if Jeffries could see the color rising in his face. He didn’t know why, it was just–he just had those eyes, and those cheekbones, and that voice, and really, really beautiful lips–the most beautiful lips he had ever seen on a man–he swallowed, and felt the warmth spread down into his stomach and down–

“Don’t you at least wanna know what I’m doin’ this for?”

Gordon blinked, suddenly snapped out of his reverie. “Um–only if you want to tell me.”

Jeffries raised an eyebrow, and then tried again. “You know this ain’t legal. And if either of us get caught, we’re gonna get kicked out of the academy.”

“I trust you.”

“You don’t know nothin’ about me,” Jeffries whispered, exasperated.

"No, but I know we’re going to be partners.”

Jeffries stopped again, staring at him. Either the truth or the presumption of his statement had made some sort of impression on Jeffries. He assumed it was the former, even if Jeffries wouldn’t admit to it at this particular moment. Their partnership felt inevitable, like a turn of fate.

“You know it’s true,” he whispered, a small, mischievous smile creeping over his face.

Jeffries stared at him for a moment longer, and then shook his head, his frustration collapsing into amusement. “Fine, Cole. But be quiet and don’t get chatty.”

Gordon beamed, and gave him an excited thumbs up.


	2. Chapter 2

**1975**

7, the most magically powerful number. The number of transformation. 7 years since Gordon had found Phillip in a Quantico classroom and inserted himself into his life. 7 years of partnership, of stolen looks across the bullpen, of love in motel rooms on case after case, of conversations in the dark about dreams of sleep and future plans. Gordon got to play the hero and save Phillip's life; Phillip saved his twice, which brings Gordon no end of annoyance. Gordon wistfully dreams of domestic life, which embarrasses Phil--he is grateful that social discretion and Gordon's political ambition require that they keep separate apartments and the facade of separate lives. Gordon sees the occasional girlfriend and Phillip doesn't mind, and Gordon cares a lot that Phillip sees other men. Gordon gets a promotion, then another, then another--Phillip protects his freedom as an agent and delves deeper and deeper down into the darkness of things. A life of grim adventure and intrigue and mystery.

Then Lois Duffy appears, and the mirror shatters--the gunshot from her gun takes Gordon's hearing, condemning him to desk duty. And in the radiating fallout she brings disillusionment, which bring resentment (had it always been there?), which brings the arguments and doubts. Where else could they be directed but at each other? Nowhere--no one else was real, and nothing could prove that what they had--or even just their own selves--were real and solid, either. This was the lesson of Lois Duffy. 

Gordon buries himself in work, and Jeffries begins to accept cases that are longer and farther away. Then there's a transfer, and he's almost free--until Gordon gets a call in the middle of the night from a man named Douglas Milford, which binds them back together again.

* * *

**1980**

Grimy wallpaper and orange standing lamps. Vinyl curtains fluttering over the vent of the air conditioning wall unit. A rotary phone, its black twisting cord stretched out over the motel bed.

“‘The ocean drying does not reveal the seabed.’”

Phillip hummed into the phone. “Bit late for a call from a Regional Director.”

“It’s an ancient phrase.”

“I know. From China. You’ve told me before.”

Jeffries picked up the phone cradle in his hand. He stepped out the sliding door onto the deck, and leaned against the railing, looking down at the blue swimming pool in the courtyard two stories below, shining fluorescent cerulean in the dark.

“It’s 2am in Philadelphia,” Phillip says through the cigarette hanging on his lips.

“I can’t sleep.”

“You never do.”

He can imagine Gordon there, sitting on the bed with the phone from his night stand tucked between his shoulder and his ear, the volume turned up to an obnoxious level. Filing his nails or shining his shoes, making up reasons to call in the middle of the night. And as far as Gordon was concerned, 2am perseverations on ancient Chan proverbs were worth a dollar a minute.

 _I just called to say I still love you._ I just called to say that when I think when I think of the absence of oceans, I think of you, hundreds of miles away from me.

Most people had to be drunk to have an excuse to call an ex-lover, but Jeffries knew Gordon Cole was, as usual, very sober. He never drank, citing the effects of alcohol on memory and mental clarity, which Gordon considered paramount to the success of his job. On paper, Gordon would write off the long distance call as a business expense. On the memo line: Supervision and case consultation.

“When the ocean dries, the hidden seabed that is revealed is no longer the seabed. It’s now land.”

“What can I do for you, chief.”

“... I’m just thinking about all of it.”

“You always do.”

Phillip exhales smoke into the air, waiting as the past 13 years silently tick through Gordon’s head one by one. “All of it” means all of them, but he catches on the 7th; a grimy Olympia motel room not unlike this one--

“One day it’s going to all dry up and it won’t be the seabed anymore. What we’re looking for won’t be the seabed anymore. It’s going to be something else.”

He's talking his usual nonsense, the kind that speaks to the part of Phillip that is beyond words, a confused mess of emotions and thoughts and memories.  Usually melancholy, sometimes elated, always beyond words. The knot in his chest that makes him run to find the creatures that live in the dim, secret corners of things. Sometimes Gordon’s nonsense makes him feel like he doesn't have to go find them himself, that there is plenty of mystery right where he was standing. Other times it makes him want to drop everything and run until he had lost all sense of direction.

Phillip is silent. Gordon quotes a 13th century Zen master, the closest thing to reciting love poems in the middle of the night that Phil will allow him to have anymore.

“'Eternal blue depths; the moon in space.'”

And then Gordon falls into silence too--real silence, not the kind taken up by the usual tick tock of Gordon's clockwork brain, a tickertape of hidden projects and future plans. Jeffries can hear the fullness of it on the other end. It opens and it echoes: _I love you._

“Go to sleep, Gordon,” Phillip finally says, and there is affection in his voice. Not enough to repair broken glass, but enough to put Gordon's restless thoughts at ease for a few hours.

“All right.”

Jeffries hangs up. He thinks about how these conversations used to end-- _When will you be home?_

He watches the water of the pool refract over the depths of its white plastered concrete. 

* * *

**1985**

**I.**

“What the hell are you doing here, Phil.”

"I came over because we need to talk," Jeffries began.

Gordon waited, stone faced.

"I been thinkin' about leavin' the Bureau."

"To do what?"

"I got ideas," Jeffries drawled.

Gordon dropped his head between his shoulders. He felt a heat rise to his face from an evening of drinking and a decade of chasing Phillip into a void that seemed insistent on swallowing Jeffries no matter what Gordon did to try and prevent it. He flicked ash from his cigarette into the tray on the coffee table, trying to keep his voice even.

"Like what, Phil."

"Bit hazy on the details," Jeffries said evasively. "Look, Gordon. You know as well as I do that we gotta start bein' a bit more... creative, if we're gonna get anywhere or do anything worthwhile. More initiative and less visibility. The Bureau's got resources but all sorts of red tape."

"That's why you're partnered with _me_ ," Gordon said slowly. He lifted his head again and squinted at Jeffries. "That's why Milford fixed me up with the promotion. So I can _clear the tape for you."_ He put a hand up to his necktie and started loosening it in agitation. "That's how this fucking _works_ , Jeffries!" He snapped his tie off his neck.

He sighed impatiently, squeezing his eyes shut and feeling the alcohol buzz around his brain. He drinks too much now--red wine, silently and unconsciously citing the benefits of emotional numbing, which he considered paramount to the success of his job. He was losing his temper. Probably what Jeffries wanted-- dump this on Gordon, and then use the subsequent outburst as an excuse to leave as soon as possible. He knew he shouldn't have drank in anticipation of Phillip's arrival. On the other hand, the drinking was the only thing that made his arrival bearable.

 _I should have known as soon as he sat down on that couch like he owned it,_ Gordon brooded _. All we've ever done on that couch is fight or make love._

He drained his glass and refilled it.

"Well, that's just it, Gordon. Milford talks big, no results. You think it works, I don't. So." He gesticulated with his cigarette. "I'm quittin' the Bureau to go do my own thing."

"Real great, Phil." Gordon stabbed his cigarette out in the ash tray in disgust. "Real swell. Terrific. This puts me in a real great place, you know that? Holy _jumpin_ ' George."

Jeffries raised an eyebrow. "I don't see how this affects you much. Blue Rose hasn't been goin' nowhere. Just a bureaucratic money pit that churns out reams of useless space garbage." He flicked ash from his cigarette. "You still got your job, and you can keep climbin' that ladder you like so well, and Milford and the Major can play with their space toys while you get your glory at headquarters." He dragged on his cigarette, looking at Gordon with his head tilted. "Ain't that what you want?"

"Don't do that, Phil." Gordon pointed at Jeffries. "Don't come over to my apartment and sit there and--and look at me like that and start up with that horseshit."

Jeffries continued to look at him "like that" for a long moment, and then looked away, blowing smoke. "Anythin' else we need to discuss before I leave."

"Are you joking? What the hell am I going to tell Milford?"

"Whatever you want, Gordon. I don't care."

His blood boiled. Jeffries was intentionally pushing every single one of his buttons in the way that only he knew how to do, but Gordon couldn't take it anymore. He slammed his wine glass on the table.

"GET YOUR HEAD ON FUCKING STRAIGHT AND GET REAL!" Gordon yelled. "What the hell do you think you're gonna do without a badge and a budget! Hitchhike to the Soviet Union and smooth talk your way into a goddamn Kremlin military compound?"

"Maybe." Jeffries dragged on his cigarette and shrugged.

Suddenly something clicked in Gordon's brain.

"You're not going to South America."

Jeffries glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, but said nothing.

"I mean it, Phillip. You try that and you're getting a visit from IA, your passport tagged. The whole goddamn thing."

"I doubt that," Jeffries drawled.

"You think I won't?"

"Nope."

Gordon stared at him in disbelief, shaking his head.

"What is wrong with you," he said quietly.

Jeffries didn't respond. He puffed at his cigarette pensievely, staring off into space for several long, silent minutes.

"Fine. Do whatever you want." Gordon finally snapped. "Just... " He rubbed his palms into his eye sockets. God, he wanted to put his hands on him and... and shake him awake. "Just don't quit. All right? Let me make sure you have at least a badge and some, some damn cash in your wallet."

"No thanks." Jeffries stood up suddenly, gathering his things.

"Phillip," he said, warningly.

"I'll send in my resignation tomorrow." Gordon felt his stomach drop. He watched helplessly as Jeffries put on his coat, his mind racing. He had no ideas. This was happening too fast for his inebriated brain to be able to keep up with Phillip's games.

"Phillip."

Jeffries ignored him, tucking his pack of cigarettes into his coat pocket.

Anger rapidly turned to panic. "Don't leave," he blurted, grabbing Phillip's elbow with his hand.

Jeffries stopped, looking down at Gordon's grip on his arm. Gordon swallowed. He tugged on Jeffries' arm insistently, telling him silently but firmly with his eyes to come back down.

Jeffries sat down again, looking almost bored. Gordon released him and his arm fell across the top of the couch toward Jeffries, gripping the upholstery in quiet desperation.

Phillip blew a billow of smoke in a long, slow exhale. "You look like you got somethin' on that you want to get off your chest," he said, not looking at Gordon, but very much seeing every single thought that was running through his head.

Gordon looked at Jeffries, thinking, weighing the possibilities and all the reasons why he shouldn't do this, and found them very wanting against the echo of a visceral, aching reality that he sensed could very well be his in just a few short moments, if he allowed himself to just find the magic words. But timing was everything in magic. The right words can be wrong if the timing is out of order. Would there ever be a time when they be made right again?

Time is a flat circle and all return to their original positions in the end, but so does a merry-go-round, and if you try to jump at the wrong time you end up tripping, nauseated, in the dirt. _Or worse. You just waltz off to Argentina without me into a goddamn black hole._

He didn't have any cards left to keep Phillip here except this one.

"I want to kiss you." Gordon suddenly confessed, his voice heavy and thick with desperation.

"That so?" Jeffries clicked, dryly.

Gordon nodded.

Jeffries was quiet for a long time, also tinkering with something slippery and elusive inside of himself that probably shouldn't have been touched.

"And what else?" He finally said.

Gordon flushed, and his expression turned from desperation to hunger.

* * *

 

**II.**

"Jeffries wants to quit Blue Rose."

"What, your dick go soft or something?"

Gordon cringed. Usually he was grateful that he didn't have to hide that aspect of his relationship with Jeffries from Milford, but he wished the man would have a little more discretion or... decorum.

"If you were still screwing him right we wouldn't be having this problem in the first place. 'Pussy doesn't stray if it's got a reason to stay.'" He said through his cigar, and punctuated his words of dubious wisdom with the thwack of his golf driver.

Gordon squeezed his eyes shut, mortified.

"I--um, I really don't think that's why he wants to quit the project--"

Milford leaned on his club, watching the ball fly down the green. "Kid, pull your goddamn head out of your ass. This is about him pushing your buttons to see if you mean business. You're the director, you're the one in charge. So get your goddamn shit together, use the offshore account to take him to Vegas, buy him a fucking Mercedes or a gold bracelet, I don't care, and then fuck him properly and tell him to get back to work." He squinted. "Ah, hell. What's par on this one?"

"Three."

"Christ." He walked back up to the golf cart.

They dropped their clubs into the back of the cart and got in, and Milford took off down the course, taking corners and hills like he took anything else in life: too fast, caution to the wind, and with a possible death wish. Gordon grabbed on to the rail, trying not to look terrified. "Look, kid, the best advice I can give you is 'don't screw your colleagues.' Since you fucked that up a long time ago, your options now are to keep screwing him, or let him call his own bluff and watch him quit. As the head of this thing, I'm telling you for the sake of the project that it needs to be the former. So get cracking. Agents like Jeffries don't just fall out of the damn sky."

The cart zoomed over a hill, leaving the ground for a nauseating second and bouncing back down onto the pavement. Gordon wasn't so sure about that last bit in Phillip's case--falling from a passing comet or being pushed out of a vortex seemed to be the only believable way that a person like Phillip Jeffries could appear in this world--but he understood the point being made. Jeffries was irreplaceable.

* * *

**-A letter from Colonel Milford, dated 1986-**

_... Look, kid. You can't save anyone. Wish I could tell you differently. But the world is a fucked up place and not everything is on your shoulders, even if you're the one in charge. I'm sorry it was Jeffries this time, he was a good kid and so are you, but better that you learn this now because it's not going to get any better from here on out. Believe me, I know. He was the first but I can guarantee he won't be the last, both in the love and the loss. This is what you signed up for, and I wouldn't have picked you for the job if I didn't think you could shoulder the burden._

_One last time, a word of advice for the future that I'm sure you'll probably ignore, because I did too: don't screw colleagues and definitely don't screw your agents, don't put them in places where you feel personally responsible as well as professionally. It never works out, for them or for you._

_Take your time, take a fucking vacation for once, get something stronger than that dandy shit you drink and forget your own name for a while and learn the names of a few cocktail waitresses in Miami and then come back to work. Once you've gotten back in the saddle, give me a ring and I'll send you some documents from LPA that need looking over..._

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Many of these headcanons are based on my RPs and conversations with DetroitBabe, so she deserves a lot of credit!


End file.
